


heir of the bliss point

by Chromathesia



Series: acoc fics by chrom [7]
Category: A Crown of Candy - Fandom, Dimension 20 (Web Series)
Genre: Gen, Series Rewrite, possible ooc, these tags will evolve as the fic is written
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:33:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28352487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chromathesia/pseuds/Chromathesia
Summary: Princess Jet Rocks, first of her name, is crowned the heir to Candia, and inherits with it a country so laden with tension that it takes a mere spark for it to burst into flames of war. Secrets buried under six feet of kindling are exposed, allegiances are questioned, and the world is made to open up as Candia itself is made to question what it has been built upon. Victory is but an aftertaste to survival.(or: A Crown of Candy, reimagined. All player characters from canon are major characters (along with a few important NPCs). Do not trust in canon to know these characters fully.)
Series: acoc fics by chrom [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1782913
Comments: 1
Kudos: 8





	1. coronation

**Author's Note:**

> hello hi this is probably going to be my longest d20-centric fic as of right now. i've been hacking away at it for MONTHS and even now the plot isn't fully formed, so uh. let's see how this goes. big big shoutout to everyone i've asked to pre-read the first chapter-- without any of them, i highly doubt this story would make as much sense as it currently does.
> 
> as implied in the summary, i've messed with character arcs and development and relationships quite a bit. npcs that never met in canon might be good friends or bitter rivals in this fic. some key changes that would probably be good to know out of the gate are as follows:  
> \- this fic is set (around?) two years after when acoc started. jet and ruby are twenty years old. jet had her "i'm going to be king one day" realization when she was eighteen still and has operated for the last two years with that air of responsibility.  
> \- liam is not at the castle as a ward but as amanda's squire. preston is his steed (he casts enlarge on him. shh. let me bend d&d spell lists for this.)  
> \- since i mentioned amanda, all of the players' back-up characters will have an important part in this story, though admittedly they'll probably seem like ocs wearing canon names as we have virtually no information on any of them, lol

Chancellor Cadbury, Ruby thinks, is a fan of the history of royal lines. Perhaps that’s just because Candia is a monarchy, unlike the other countries within the Concord, but it feels as though the Primogen focuses almost exclusively on the kinds of kings there are. His favorite duality is the war king and the peace king, and his favorite part of that duality is how rarely war kings reign during war and peace kings reign during peace. She stares blankly at the jagged lines that have been scrawled on the board with a white sugar-stick; even after decades of writing on that board, the Chancellor’s handwriting has decidedly not improved.

Ruby’s eyes slowly trail off of the board and towards Jet, who continues to stare intently at whatever their tutor is writing. If she hadn’t known any better, Ruby would have assumed her sister was bored from the way the pen in her hand tapped against her taffy-parchment rather than taking any notes. As it was, the Chancellor is going over histories that the twins had already learned, and while Ruby is melting of boredom, Jet seems to be taking the review as a chance to make sure she actually knew everything she needed to.

 _King behavior_ , Ruby grumbles to herself.

There had been a time when Jet found these lectures just as dull as Ruby still does; then, all it took was a shared glance to perform Escape Maneuver Number Thirty-Seven (straw dummies and a climb down from the classroom window). They would have run all the way to Dulcington, laughing and joking with one another all the way.

Ruby misses being a child.

Perhaps Jet hadn’t quite lost her skiving tendencies because when she glances over and notices the utter boredom on her sister’s face, she clears her throat in the middle of the Chancellor’s droning monologue on King Obsidh Rocks.

“Sorry, Chancellor, it’s just—I think our mother, the Queen, wanted us to be fully prepared for tonight, and I’m just a little worried on time,” Jet lies smoothly when the chocolate rabbit turns at her interruption.

The Chancellor pauses to eye her and then glance out the window (it’s just past midday and the party and ceremony aren’t until sundown). For a second, the twins think he’s going to deny their request, but Chancellor Cadbury lowers the hand holding his chalk, one of his long ears twitching, and he simply nods. “Very well, your Highnesses. Off you go. Congratulations on the upcoming coronation, Princess Jet.”

Jet gives him a demure yet dazzling smile before grabbing Ruby’s hand and darting out of the room with her.

Lapin blinks as they disappear out of the door before turning to his scribblings on the board. He picks up the small pail of cleaning cola he keeps in the room and begins sponging the board down, efficiently erasing all of the chalk marks he had made in the past few hours.

The door slams open close to half an hour later, but when he turns back around, it’s not the twins standing there but the Lord Commander of the Tartguard in front of him, his golden armor carefully polished to a shine, his posture perfect and straight.

“Chancellor,” Sir Theobald Gumbar says stiffly.

Lapin barely glances at the gummy bear knight. “Ah, Sir Gumbar. If you could pass me that broom next to the doorway—”

“I’m afraid I cannot dally, Chancellor,” The Lord Commander says. “I’m here to see that the princesses are brought to prepare for both their Saint’s Day celebration as well as the coronation ceremony this evening. This is a matter of punctuality, Chancellor, I’m sure you can agree—”

“You’re here for the princesses, Lord Commander?” Lapin asks, walking past Theobald to get the broom he asked for. “I’m afraid they left not thirty minutes ago.”

Lapin watches out of the corner of his eye with some amount of amusement as Theobald’s left eye twitches. “Ah. I see. And no one saw fit to inform me of this development?” he grinds out.

The Chancellor simply starts sweeping up his classroom. “I had nothing new to teach the princesses and they seemed quite eager to begin preparations themselves.” He glances at Theobald. “Also, if I may? Were I to inform anyone, it would most likely be Sir Maillard or their squire who would be informed, as the Queen has assigned them to the princesses’ care. It may escape your notice, Lord Commander, but there are layers of propriety that I am bound to, and your charge has never been the princesses.”

Lapin can hear Theobald stomping behind him so it doesn’t surprise him to turn and find the knight directly behind him. “How dare you question me,” Theobald growls. “One more word, one more reason, and—”

“And what, Lord Commander?” Lapin says, eyeing Theobald. “What do you need one more reason for?”

The gummy bear’s eyes are narrowed. “Nothing.”

“Nothing? Nothing at all? Interesting.”

“I despise your little word games, Chancellor. If the princesses are not here, I do not see any reason to remain in your presence,” Theobald says before stomping out of the room.

“What a large goon,” Lapin mutters to himself, finishing his final sweep of the classroom.

* * *

Every day, King Amethar Rocks, first of his name, spends the hour before lunch with his sisters. Every day, he prepares questions whose answers he will never receive, jokes whose punchlines will never land (full conversations with only himself), and every day, when it comes time to convene for the meal, he finds himself longing for more time.

His schedule is so clockwork that it doesn’t surprise him that Lord Calroy Cruller of Muffinfield knows exactly where to track him down. He knocks on the doorframe before entering, walking in quietly as Amethar’s voice dies down from whatever he was asking Citrina.

“Please, don’t stop on my account,” Cal says with his typical alacrity.

The normalcy of the sentence pulls a grin to Amethar’s face and he just gives his companion a nod. “Sorry, I was asking Rina to remind me of what I have to say at the ceremony today. She was old enough for Ro’s coronation. I’d ask Laz but she never saw much point in the ritual of it all, and Saff and I were too young to remember everything distinctly.” He’s rambling and he knows he’s rambling, but it’s okay because Cal’s looking at him with only patience and fond exasperation in his gaze.

“Did Lady Citrina have any pointers?”

Amethar glances back at Citrina. Tall enough to dwarf even Amethar, no affection in that gaze, hands arranged in the typical Bulbian fashion.

“Don’t faint,” Amethar says. There’s an echo of a suddenly appearing tricky smirk and a hand patting his shoulder.

Cal waits for Amethar to rouse himself from his memory. “I wouldn’t bother you right now if it wasn’t for something a little urgent. We got a late RSVP messenger from the Great Stone Candy Mountains—were you expecting anyone from out there?”

Amethar blinks. “I mean, Uncle Joren, maybe? Can’t think of why he’d want to come down here, even if it’s for the kingdom, though.”

“You’re all family. Maybe that’s it.” Cal says. “Well, I’ll prepare for another party then. Take your time here, Amethar.”

“Thanks, Cal.”

He’s left alone with his sisters again, but he’s lost the thread of the conversation. He spends the rest of the time looking up at all of them, feeling something missing deep in his chest.

* * *

It doesn’t actually take Jet hours to prepare for that night, but in the hour between her and Ruby’s twentieth Saint’s Day celebration and her coronation ceremony she suddenly finds herself mentally going through checklists, frantically trying to remember if she forgot anything at all. She is so preoccupied with double-checking and triple-checking that she doesn’t realize her mother has entered the antechamber she’s pacing in until Queen Caramelinda Rocks clears her throat. Jet whips around to see her mother in the room with her, her mother’s champion barely more than a silhouette in the doorway behind her.

“Mama!” she says, a sudden wall of relief washing over her. It’s not that she didn’t appreciate her father, but for some reason she had the feeling her mother would be much more helpful for this.

“Breathe, Jet,” Caramelinda says, resting her hands on her shoulders. “It won’t do anyone any good if you hyperventilate yourself into a state before your big moment.”

“Oh, why did you have to remind me,” Jet moans. “What if I mess up? What if I throw up all over the nobles?”

“Then you become Crown Princess and the nobles will whisper for a couple of months before moving onto other gossip,” Caramelinda says plainly. Her hands leave Jet’s shoulders to cup her face gently. “Oh, my baby girl, all grown up. I know you hate this pomp and circumstance, but just play the part for the night, for me?”

Jet sighs but lifts a hand to hold her mother’s to her cheek. She feels the two rings on Caramelinda’s right hand. “I will.”

“Good girl.” Caramelinda leans up to kiss her on the crown of her head. “Either Liam or Amanda will come back here to let you know when it’s time for you to go out there. You remember how it goes?”

“I put on the cloak before going into the room, I bring the scepter, I take off the princess tiara, I touch the scepter to the heir’s crown, Pops puts the heir’s crown on my head, I turn around, everyone claps, we eat dinner,” Jet recites. “It’s just Candian nobles here tonight, right?”

Caramelinda narrows her eyes at Jet. “What are you cooking up, gumdrop?”

Jet’s returned smile is nothing short of angelic, and Caramelinda sighs at the sight. “You really have grown up, haven’t you? You look just like your aunt Citrina with that smile of yours.”

The smile slips into something more genuine; Jet doesn’t really remember any of her aunts, but they live in the castle as much as she does, years after their deaths. The moment of silence threatens to stretch into something undefinable, but Sir Maillard notes this and steps forward.

“Your Majesty, my apologies but if we do not return to the ballroom, I shudder to think what conclusions the Lord Commander and Lord Cruller may reach,” they say quietly. They glance at Jet. “Your Royal Highness, I may send Liam to alert you when it is time for you to join us. Don’t worry too much; it’s his first coronation too.”

“Yippee,” Jet mutters under her breath.

* * *

There’s a light to Jet’s eyes that Ruby is startled by when she reenters the ballroom accompanied by Sir Maillard’s squire, royal scepter in hand, a thick purple cloak arranged on her shoulders. There have been occasions where Jet seemed too serious for her age, moments after their eighteenth Saints’ Day, when their parents took them aside and told them the full history of their family: how Aunt Laz was more than just an aunt, how she saw the world in fractals and learned to navigate the future; how Aunt Saff’s body was never recovered from her final diplomatic mission, how she courted nobles and peasants with ease; how Aunt Rina’s voice and song and laughter filled the churches she preached in; how Aunt Ro used to allow all emotion to leave her to fight for Candia and how the warmth reentered when she returned home. Those words (for Candia) always resonated throughout those histories: Aunt Saff endangered herself for Candia, Aunt Rina stood for Candia, Aunt Ro led their people for Candia, Aunt Laz died for Candia.

It was odd to Ruby then (and still is odd now) to realize that her father’s twin sister, the one she is compared to still, burned more clothes than Ruby has ever owned because blood never quite washes out of whites, but Jet had looked into the eyes of Aunt Ro’s portrait as if they were a mirror. She had been entranced by that portrait, at the severity in her gaze, and she had become invested in knowing their family’s history fully shortly after. Ruby never thought that Jet could mirror that severity herself, but it seems her sister has proven her wrong yet again. 

Her father stills beside her. Propriety demands that Ruby’s gaze remain fixed on Jet to fully honor this moment for her, but she can’t help but glance at Amethar, sitting beside her.

His expression has gone blank. Perhaps Jet’s not the only one who learned that skill.

Ruby catches the beginning of a stumble from Jet, but before she can react, Jet has quickly corrected herself and walks more smoothly towards the altar. Chancellor Cadbury stands there waiting for her, wearing not his tutor’s robes but a more elaborate set that firmly establishes him as a Primogen of the Bulbian faith. As Jet bows to him, the Chancellor carefully takes the princess tiara off of her head, reciting something in ancient Bulbian as he does so. Jet lowers the royal scepter to the more elaborate heir’s crown that she is expected to wear now. She holds the scepter out for Chancellor Cadbury to take. He does, moving it to his side, and she crowns herself with the heir’s crown.

All in all, a lot more formal nonsense than Ruby strictly finds interesting, but when Jet turns to the noble houses, now Crown Princess, she barely holds back an exuberant whoop for her sister. Jet moves towards the royal family’s table, shrugging the cloak off as she gets to her seat.

“That looks heavy,” Ruby comments, her eyes flashing with sympathy.

“It was,” Jet grumbles. “Stuffy too. Bulb above.”

Caramelinda glances over and raises an eyebrow at the casual utterance and Jet grimaces her apology.

“Well then, Crown Princess,” Ruby says, helping herself to the roast of the evening, “do you still like your potatoes covered in extra peppermint?”

There’s no returning tease. “Crown Princess,” she repeats, rolling the words over her tongue. “Somehow, it sounds different now. I really am gonna be King, huh.”

Whatever Ruby’s about to say next is interrupted by the sound of the front doors of Castle Candy being shoved open and the Tartguard shouting and running over. Theo stands up in a huff and barks out something to the rest of the Knights of North Gumbia and they all stand at positions by the door to the ballroom.

“Amethar, are we expecting anyone?” Caramelinda asks, her voice masked with calm.

Amethar blinks. “I thought, maybe Uncle Joren? He’s not the type to make that kind of racket though.”

There are sounds of scuffles in the hall outside the ballroom—Jet can hear the Tartguard screaming shrilly, can hear them being shoved against a wall and thrown to the floor, can hear unfamiliar grunting and shouts, and she’s standing alongside her mother before she realizes she is.

The sound of conflict rings closer. The Knights of North Gumbia look like they’re ready to attack first and talk later.

“Sir Theobald, stand down,” Jet orders.

Theobald gives her a look of incredulity. “But, princess—”

“The Crown Princess gave you an order, Lord Commander,” Caramelinda snaps out. “I suggest you abide by it.”

Theo swallows dryly. “Yes, your Majesty. Knights, stand down but remain ready in case of conflict.”

The Knights hesitantly lower their weapons, though the violent way that the doors are thrown open nearly send them into an attack formation again.

The people that enter through the doors are not what Jet expected. They’re Candians, that much is obvious, but their similarities to the others in the ballroom end there. Their clothes have been torn and mended, the armor they wear appears cobbled together from a gamut of sets, and there’s an air of hunger and wariness that the highborn Candians that Jet knows would never carry. There’s a danger to their eyes Jet has never seen before. There are also far fewer of them than she expected: she counts maybe six people in total.

“The King is not taking an audience at this time,” Caramelinda says. “State your purpose.”

Jet sees a slight shifting among the interlopers, and from between a chocolate woman with a half-melted face and what looks like a puddle of molasses sludge haphazardly poured into a humanoid form emerges a woman of mint chip ice cream, perhaps a year or so older than her. Her hair’s been half shaved off and the rest of it is tied back and away from her face, and she looks towards Jet and her family with a tempered steel that Jet silently admires.

“Our purpose? Why, I thought I’d get a royal welcome; made sure to send an RSVP and everything,” the woman says, and her eyes land on Amethar. The woman’s face stretches into a sly grin. “Hi, Daddy.”


	2. summons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Saccharina has a request.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> possible ooc for saccharina out of her feeling incredibly on the wrong foot and off-balance for a good portion of this chapter.

It does make Caramelinda feel guilty that she immediately assumed her daughter would be outraged at the appearance of an unknown person claiming royal blood. Perhaps the Jet of a few years ago would have felt petulant, tempted to show off her station, to reassure herself that Amethar’s throne would be hers one day, but the heir’s crown rests heavy on Jet’s brow, thorns and all, and she dismisses the nobles who gathered to celebrate her to find out more about this girl who has exploded into their lives.

Caramelinda looks at the girl once more. Amethar had suggested they move to a smaller room to allow the servants to clean up what was left from the half-finished celebrations (the girl’s eyes had narrowed at that) but now they sat around a table, the House of Rocks on one side, the newcomers on the other. Sir Gumbar stands behind Amethar’s chair, Amanda behind Caramelinda’s.

“So.” Amethar says, breaking the tense silence. He is seated across from the girl claiming herself his daughter and he is looking at her with a guarded longing that Caramelinda hasn’t seen in a long time. “You’re my kid?”

“That’s what I’ve been told,” the girl says back; she’s slouching a bit in her chair in the way that Jet used to.

“By?”

“My mother. Who else.” She shoots her words at Amethar as though they were arrows.

“I’m sorry, what did you say your name was?” Ruby interjects. “I don’t believe I remember you ever telling us anything about yourself other than that you’re apparently our sister.”

In any other circumstance, Caramelinda would have scolded Ruby for her rudeness, but she can’t find it in herself to care for anything besides this girl’s response.

The woman with the half-melted face snarls, starting to stand from her chair as another person of chocolate frantically holds her down by an arm. “How dare you speak to my lady like that—”

“Gooey, it’s fine. Calm down.” The girl turns towards Ruby where she sits beside Caramelinda. “I’m Saccharina of House Frostwhip,” she says, the formality in her tone audibly unpracticed, “but I also go by Saccharina Ghee.”

Amethar jerks then, his form going rigid. “Ghee?” he repeats.

“Oh, so now you remember my mother,” Saccharina scoffs.

“I—” Amethar trails off, glancing to Caramelinda. “I thought she—"

Caramelinda clears her throat to save Amethar from this mess. “Alright. It is far too late to be this tense, and today’s meant to be an exciting day for the kingdom, not just our family. We don’t have to figure all of this out right now,” she says. “Jet, Ruby, could you take the Lady Frostwhip and her friends to a guest wing and get them settled in?”

“Of course,” Jet says quickly before Ruby can say anything. She stands up from her chair, walking around until she can offer the crook of her elbow to Saccharina. “If you will?”

The girl doesn’t take Jet’s offer, hesitating in her chair before standing and eyeing her suspiciously. “Lead the way, Princess,” she says.

After Jet and Ruby usher the strange entourage out of the room, followed closely by Liam, Caramelinda turns to Amethar. “Explain. Now.”

Amethar rubs his eyes with his hands. In all the years that he’s known her, Caramelinda has never been one to back down when she was demanding something. It was something that they had all loved about her—how easily she could bring any of them out of the clouds with a single statement. He had even admired that about her, back when things were simpler and all he was responsible for was loving his family. “There was a girl. During the war. Catherine. She was a Dairy Islander.”

He’s not looking at her now, but Caramelinda reaches a hand over and grips his shoulder. It’s grounding and real and a reminder that he wasn’t the only one who lost the world. “Tell me about her, Amethar.”

“Oh, lord. What isn’t there to say about her.” Amethar can hear more than feel his overwhelming fondness. “It’s weird to say but I don’t really remember her face too well, anymore. I remember that she looked like a storm. Freckles all over her cheeks but she had—Manta called them looming eyes. Deep, dark brown eyes and skin that turned gold and burnished when the Bulb’s light touched her. What I really remember, though, is her hands. Noble ladies, they’ve got hands that are soft, y’know? Haven’t touched a single thing in their lives besides a goblet and a book. But her hands told stories. You could tell that she’d been everywhere from those hands. Her pa was a sailor, so she knew all of these real complicated knots—she used to tie her hair back with literal rope, when it got in her way, and she was never afraid of laughing. Y’all noble kids, you think that if you laugh too hard you lose grace, but she laughed with her whole damn heart. Made you laugh along with it.”

Amethar’s bursts of memories are beginning to slow. Something aches inside of him: a hole he didn’t know was there. “When we met, she told me she wasn’t long for the world. Said that something was eating her from the inside out, and all of the Bulbian healers said there wasn’t anything that could be done for her, so she decided to stop being afraid of death and to live. I know it sounds cliché, but she was the only person I’ve ever met who made that cliché sound new. Fresh. Like a mantra of life that no one had discovered before.” There are tears on Amethar’s cheeks; he can see them clouding his vision. “Fuck. I haven’t thought about her in so long.”

Caramelinda hums.

“Saccharina? That was her name, right? She’s got Catherine’s eyes. I bet they light up like fire in the sun.”

* * *

Liam doesn’t quite know what to do. He hates not knowing what to do.

Sir Maillard is a strict but kind knight to serve. They give quiet corrections after the fact so that Liam doesn’t have to suffer through being embarrassed on the spot, and they are more than patient when Liam’s mouth runs away from him. They seem to have the answers to everything—perhaps that’s what serving someone for years (longer than Liam’s been alive, even) does to someone.

That all being said, Liam doesn’t think they’d have any advice for him at this moment, and thus he is stuck.

“This is the guest wing,” Jet says. When Saccharina didn’t take her offered arm, Ruby had quickly darted forward and taken it herself (to avoid Jet’s embarrassment? Liam ticks it down as an ask-Sir-Maillard-later thought), and her hand is still tucked in the crook of Jet’s elbow. “If you ever need anything, feel free to ask Master Liam, here. If he doesn’t have the answer to your question, he’ll at least know who will.”

“Or you could ask Limon,” Liam pipes up. “If I’m not around, y’know.”

Jet’s distant expression breaks as she visibly fights a smile for him. “Or ask Master Limon. Ignore his self-deprecation, if you can.”

Their visitors are frozen in the common room that the guest rooms are attached to, eyes wide as they look around. Jet finds herself self-consciously glancing over the room herself. Was there something off? Did the maids forget a rug? Was the wing too chilly for their guests, despite the summer air?

“Is there anything we can get for you right now?” Ruby asks, her thoughts mirroring Jet’s.

“Why aren’t there beds in your guest room?” the woman with the half-melted face asks faintly.

“Oh, this isn’t really a guest  _ room _ ,” Ruby says, “the rooms are in there,” (she points) “this is just where you can retire to when you tire of company.”

“This wing has the most rooms attached to it,” Jet adds. “I believe there should be room enough for all of you, though it may be a bit of a squeeze.”

“Bit of a squeeze,” the chocolate man scoffs. “This is huge. A mansion.”

“More of a cottage, I’d say,” Ruby declares. “Anyhow, we should probably turn in for the night. Let us know if you need anythi—”

“Before you go,” Saccharina blurts out, “is King Amethar available tomorrow?”

“Pops?” Ruby blinks, seemingly still surprised that Saccharina even dared to interrupt her. “He should be. We’d have to go ask. Why?”

“It’s just, I’ve got a request for him,” Saccharina says. “Can I come with you to ask?”

Ruby glances to Jet, who seems uncertain for a second. “I don’t know if our father, the King, is available right now,” Jet says, “but if he is, I don’t see any problem in your being there. You’re family.” She turns around, gesturing to Liam to follow her. “If you could, Lady Frostwhip?”

“Please, just call me Saccharina,” she pleads. “Can Gooey come with me?”

Jet glances over to the melted woman. “You don’t need your bodyguard to talk to our father,” she says stiffly.

“Not as a bodyguard as—as a friend. A familiar face.”

Jet sighs. “It’s not proper, but I can’t stop you. Let’s go, before he turns in for the night. After the conversation, Master Liam will bring you back to these quarters.”

Saccharina nods, her mouth dry, silently reassuring her other compatriots that she and Gooey will be fine with wide eyes and gestures. Murdo, in particular, seems uncertain about this, his body mass melting and reforming anxiously at the thought that Saccharina would leave them alone.

Princess Jet—rather, Crown Princess Jet, Saccharina corrects herself—isn’t quite like she’d expected. The Great Stone Candy Mountains are filled with stories of the childish twins who were set to inherit the throne, the way they danced through life with no worries or cares for their people. Saccharina can see that in Princess Ruby, still; her actions seem to hinge on defiance, on acknowledging that there is a way to act and speak and that she plans to disregard the rules with a laugh like silver bells. Crown Princess Jet conducts herself like the heir to a throne, with confidence in her bearing and a formality to even the way she holds her head. She looks to Saccharina with a polite and distant interest that Saccharina isn’t sure if she loves or hates, and when she speaks, her words sound calculated, careful (calm and honeyed and warm with genuine care that roots deep in Saccharina’s chest). She hasn’t mastered the effortless grace of Queen Caramelinda, but she seems to be getting there. Saccharina is envious, just for a split second, of the way the heir seems so sure of her place in the world.

The twin princesses lead Saccharina back down halls carved from marble and inlaid in gold. Despite how garish Castle Candy seems on the outside, it is much more muted inside, color taken from tapestries on the walls and furniture arranged perfectly on plush rugs and furs. Saccharina’s gaze lingers on the soft pelt of a toffee deer; not a year ago, she would have given up an arm to be able to curl up under one of those pelts on her bed.

A lump forms in her throat. Perhaps this was too soon. Perhaps she’s not ready to be here.

There’s a hand around her waist. Saccharina starts, glancing over to where Gooey walks beside her, an arm slyly propping her up and ushering her forward. Saccharina puts a hand on Gooey’s and grips it, gratefully, assuredly. The ghost of a smile prickles Gooey’s cheek.

Soon, they reach a door far more ornate than the others Saccharina has passed before. Crown Princess Jet nods to Master Liam, who ducks past them, knocks quietly at the door, and enters.

“The princesses are here with two of our guests who wish to speak to you,” Saccharina can hear him say.

“Speak to which of us?” an unfamiliar voice, low and soothing with the correction, says.

“Ah—sorry—King Amethar. They’re here to speak to King Amethar,” the squire quickly amends.

“Thank you, Liam,” the Queen’s muffled voice says. She sounds far kinder, warmer, than she had in the private meeting room. “Please grant our daughters and guests access and stand by with Sir Maillard.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” The door opens back up, and Master Liam steps out. He holds the door open and nods to the Crown Princess, who immediately walks in, Princess Ruby still on her arm. Saccharina and Gooey quickly follow behind, Master Liam closing the door behind them.

The room glows not just with candlelight—there are firefly-like specks of arcane light floating through the air. The Queen is sitting at a chair arranged in front of the fireplace (not lit), a book in her hand, and the King has arranged himself at a table, accompanied by a man that Saccharina recognizes from both interrupting the coronation ceremony and the private meeting, and they seem to be paused from poring over documents scattered across the table top. Their knights stand off to the side; the squire from earlier joining one with bronze armor while a rather nervous-looking boy with a spear slumps next to the one in gold. The two princesses melt into the scene; Princess Ruby darts off down a hallway, Crown Princess Jet joins her mother at a chair by the fireplace.

“Sorry to interrupt your evening,” Saccharina says, feeling scraped bare.

“No, no problem at all,” the King says, gesturing towards the other chairs at the table. “Do you need something? Anything?”

Saccharina clears her throat before sitting down, grabbing Gooey’s hand under the table as something to anchor her. “Well, we didn’t just come here to try and ruin your night—that wasn’t planned, not at all, we thought we’d get there before anything important happened, sorry—”

“No need to apologize,” the other man says. “It was just a reception. I assure you that the noble Houses are more than happy to have more to gossip over.”

“Oh, Lady Frostwhip—this is Lord Calroy of House Cruller, he’s usually here to help out with stuff that involves reading.”

Saccharina blinks, eyes still fixed on Lord Cruller. “Reading?”

“Can’t read,” the King says. “The letters like swimming off of the page. It’s easier just to get someone to read it out loud and write things down for me.” He seems resigned to this fact.

“Oh.” Suddenly she feels faint. It takes Gooey gripping her hand to bring her back. “Right! Um. We came here to request your presence at Buzzybrook. As soon as possible.”

“Is there something happening in Buzzybrook?” Lord Cruller asks.

Before Saccharina can answer, the King cuts in. “No, we can go. I need to talk to Uncle Joren—Duke Jawbreaker— about something. It probably won’t work but no harm in trying, and I bet Liam wants to see his parents. We can stop by Buzzybrook on the way.”

It’s easier than Saccharina expected; she had miles upon miles of excuses ready to use that danced around the truth just enough to convince the King to come with her, but he simply agreed to her request and has left her floundering in her very comfortable chair. “Excellent. Yes. Good. I’m glad we could agree,” she manages to say. “That’s really all I had to say.”

“Welcome to Castle Candy, Lady Frostwhip,” Lord Cruller says, and Saccharina can’t help the way her heart lurches as she turns back to him, her expression neutral. “I don’t know if Amethar even thought to say it.”

“Oh, right, welcome to the Castle, welcome, welcome,” the King says, raising an eyebrow at Lord Cruller. “Did you need anything else? Enough space? More candles, maybe?”

“No! No, nothing, everything’s perfect,” Saccharina blurts out. “Um. If I may, I think there’s a spell? That sort of. Speaks into your mind. When you’re reading. I saw a reference to it in a book. Maybe you could look into it? I know the royal family has had arcane power in its bloodline.” It’s a poor thing to offer in exchange and Saccharina’s sure that the King already knows, but she feels wrong-footed in how he hasn’t even demanded her loyalty or something in return.

A wistful look enters the King’s eyes. “My sisters were the magical ones,” he says. “All I got is a big sword.”

“Ah. I see. Well then, your Majesty, I guess Gooey and I will turn in for the night.”

“Lady Frostwhip—Saccharina.” The use of her first name stops her in her tracks. “Is that okay? Can I call you Saccharina?”

“I—I guess. Sure. Why not?”

“Then don’t refer to me with ‘your Majesty’ this or ‘your Majesty’ that,” the King says. “I’ve been a piss-poor father to you, what with not being there. You don’t have to call me Dad or Pa or Pops like the girls,” (he gestures towards the Crown Princess, who Saccharina notices is unabashedly watching her) “but you can at least call me Amethar when we’re on our lonesome. You’re family.”

“Right.” She can hear her heart beating—perhaps Amethar can too. “Who was it that was going to show us back?”

“Ah, that’s me,” the peppermint squire boy says, stepping forward. “We can bring Limon, too, so that the others at least know who he is.”

“What would they want with me?” the other boy muttered in a self-pitying tone. “I’m just ol’ Limon, always dropping the ball and never picking it back up again.”

“You can just work on that, y’know,” Master Liam says as he opens the door, nodding to Saccharina and Gooey to follow him and the whiny squire.

After the doors close, Theo lets his posture relax, just a tad. “Amethar, is it really wise for everyone to leave the Castle?” he asks. “Surely, that makes it harder to defend you. Open land, all the way to the mountains? It’s a significant journey there.”

“I’m sure his Majesty can still hold his own, Theobald,” Calroy says, reclining in his seat now that the newcomers had left. He idly dusts something off of the satin pants he wears. “In any case, you and Amanda would be accompanying them, and nothing can get past you two, hm?”

“Your belief in us is flattering,” Amanda says, moving forward from where they had been standing at a wall to place a hand on Caramelinda’s shoulder, “and I, at least, will strive so that it isn’t misplaced.” They turn their attention to the Queen. “Does my lady wish to retire for the night?”

Caramelinda merely closes her book with a nod and stands. “It is late enough, and I’m sure tomorrow will be more eventful than we thought this morning,” she replies.

Amanda nods. “Theobald, if you could send Liam to bed when he returns?” They leave with Caramelinda before Theo can agree or not, Jet slipping out moments after them.

Theo frowns. “I don’t know how they don’t care how obvious they are,” he mumbles under his breath.

Amethar snorts. “It ain’t even a secret anymore. They’re happy, let it be.”

“But your Majesty, if any of the other countries found out—”

“The other countries’ve got more skeletons in their closet then I’ve buried in the ground,” Amethar says. “They don’t have a reason to care. Lay off, Theo.”

There’s another reason why Amanda’s  _ care  _ for Caramelinda irks Theo (and that’s all that it is, he convinces himself), but to put words to it would turn that conflict petty and to turn it petty is an injustice to his history. He watches his fellow guard guide their royal out of the room and shuffles his feet, glancing over at the one under his charge.

“Theo, come sit, you look so uncomfortable over there,” Calroy says to him, and he stiffly walks over and sits at the other end of the table.

“This is the final sheet, Amethar. It looks like a missive from Icyhall. ‘ _ My dearest King: to your health and good fortune, I salute. I am contacting you in as casual a manner as this to entreat upon you the necessity of your grace this season. Despite our best efforts, the weather and vermin have not been kind to our crop, and we find it necessary to beg a pardon for this week’s levy. Should such clemency be granted, we of House Swirlie will immediately move to more formally request this of the royal treasury, such to prevent the need for unnecessary work on either of our ends. We hope this epistle finds you well, &c., &c., Lord Finnegan of House Swirlie.’ _ Well. It seems that Lord Swirlie’s march isn’t doing too well, and he’s asking for an extension on the weekly levies we’ve imposed a few months ago.”

“He hasn’t had these problems before, has he?” Amethar asks, squinting at the letter that Calroy’s just read. “It’s the best season for his crop, too. What do you think, Cal?”

Calroy sighs before leaning back, reading the missive to himself once more. “I don’t know, Amethar. Muffinfield has been thriving, though we are located on the other side of the country from Icyhall,” he says slowly. “I can’t think of how inclement weather would be to delay a harvest projected months ago. I don’t have too much to contribute; either option has its benefits and risks.”

“Give the man the benefit of the doubt,” Amethar decides. “Tell him to skip this week and make sure he has the levy ready next week.”

“Will do,” Calroy says, taking out a sheet of stationary to begin the letter response.

All the while, Theo is sitting at the table, shoulders stiff in the formal posture he must always wear.

“You don’t look any more comfortable than you did when standing,” Calroy comments, glancing at Theo.

“I do not need to be comfortable, Lord Cruller,” Theo says, “I am doing my job, after all.”

“Relax a little, Theo,” Amethar says, clapping him on the back. “It’s near midnight and you’re still so wound up. Why don’t you head off to bed, actually? We’re pretty much finished up here, after all; not much more job for you to do tonight.”

Theo wants to protest but he clears his throat, nods sharply, stands, and bows to the two of them. “Your Majesty. Lord Cruller. I will see you tomorrow at daybreak.” He turns to leave the two of them alone in the room.


End file.
